


All We Are

by Captain_Jade



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Adorable Pavel Chekov, Anorexia, Bulimia, Crying, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hope, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, Mental Health Issues, Recovery, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 10:29:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20044501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Jade/pseuds/Captain_Jade
Summary: He couldn’t remember exactly how it had started. Or why. It wasn’t that he disliked the way his body looked. He wasn’t even trying to lose weight. In fact, when it started, his weight wasn’t something he thought about very much.Pavel suspected it had something to do with the fact that he was often very, very lonely, despite constantly being surrounded by people. He was also quite sad. But the biggest piece was probably his anxiety. It pounded through his head and he was left with a persistent feeling that he needed to get out, that he wasn’t safe in his own skin, because everyone was looking at him and saying bad things about him and he was taking up too much room and air and time and food and hey, some of those things he could change.





	All We Are

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning! This fic does contain graphic descriptions of purging, binging, and restricting. If you think that will trigger you, please do not read this.

**All We Are**

He couldn’t remember exactly how it had started. Or why. It wasn’t that he disliked the way his body looked. He wasn’t even trying to lose weight. In fact, when it started, his weight wasn’t something he thought about very much.

Pavel suspected it had something to do with the fact that he was often very, very lonely, despite constantly being surrounded by people. He was also quite sad. But the biggest piece was probably his anxiety. It pounded through his head and he was left with a persistent feeling that  _ he needed to get out _ , that he wasn’t safe in his own skin, because everyone was looking at him and saying bad things about him and he was taking up too much room and air and time and food and hey, some of those things he could change.

So he talked a little less and he ate a little less and it made him feel a little better. So he talked a bit less and he ate a bit less and this went on for quite a while, probably about three months, until he virtually never talked and he was eating scarcely one meal a day, which was not even remotely enjoyable anyway. Dark circles developed under his eyes, and he grew pale, even more so than usual.

At first, the talking less made him lonelier, but…then, he didn’t care. Because it became less and less about talking or being annoying or really…anything else in the galaxy--and more and more and more about food. Or, rather, the absence of that. He didn’t know why. It was just very, very comforting.

The weight piece didn’t come at all to play until Doctor McCoy called him down to the sickbay in the middle of his shift.

“Keptain?” he asked, confused.

“Your replacement has already been notified, Chekov. He’ll be here in a bit. Go ahead.” Captain Kirk said this all with a look of concern on his face, and if that wasn’t enough, several people on the bridge were exchanging glances. Pavel’s heart started to beat faster, and his breaths became faster. There was a sinking feeling of dread in his stomach, mixed with pure panic. He stood up very slowly, partially because he did not particularly want to go to the sickbay, and partially because his head was spinning and his vision blacked out if he stood up too fast.

He walked very carefully and very slowly out of the bridge, suspiciously looking at Captain Kirk the whole time. James looked away.

The walk to the sickbay felt like it took a million years, but Pavel would have liked it to go on for a bit longer than that. He entered the room and came face-to-face with Doctor McCoy, who was waiting patiently with his arms crossed. He had an indecipherable expression on his face.

“Vhat iz zee problem, doctir?” Pavel asked, trying to sound nonchalant. He instead sounded shaky.

“Pavel, will you please sit down?”

Pavel sat down on the exam table, swinging his legs slightly and trying to stay calm.

“What’s wrong?” Doctor McCoy asked.

“I just asked you zat question,” Pavel smiled.

“Well, the problem with that is I don’t know the answer. But you do. You’re scaring us, Pavel. You never talk, never smile, never laugh, never  _ eat _ , you spend most of your time off-duty locked up in your room…”

“Is fine.”

“What is fine?”

“Me!”

Leonard looked at him for a minute and then stood up. “Come here,” he said. “I’m gonna check your weight.”

“My veight?”

“Yeah. Come here, step on the scale.”

Pavel stepped on the scale while Doctor McCoy pulled out his files. “You’ve lost a  _ significant _ amount of weight. Are you  _ trying _ -”

“How much?”

“Excuse me?”

“How much did I lose?”

“...Why do you want to know?”

“I don’t know. But it’s my veight, vhy can’t I know?”

Doctor McCoy paused. “You’ve lost thirteen pounds.”

“Oh,” Pavel felt giddy.

“You were  _ already _ on the verge of being underweight before the weight loss. You need to start eating more, Pavel.”

For some reason, that last statement caused alarms to go off in Pavel’s head and he started to breathe faster. “I cannot do zat, Doctor.”

“Why not?” Doctor McCoy lead Pavel back to the exam table so that he could sit down. He put his hand on the young ensign’s hand.

“I do not…it does not feel…safe.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I do not understand anymore than you do, Doctor. But I assure you, I am fine.”

“Ensign.”

“Yes?”

“If your weight doesn’t go up at all in the next few weeks, I’m going to have to let your replacement step in for a few weeks.”

“You vill kick me off the Enterprise?!”

“That’s not what I said, Pavel. I wouldn’t do that to you. Especially not like this.”

Pavel nodded slowly. “Can I go back to my shift now?”

“No,” Doctor McCoy shook his head, “you are relieved of duty for the rest of the day.”

“Vhat? Vhy?”

“Because I said so. Now, please, go and have some lunch.”

Ensign Chekov did not go and have some lunch. He was angry. He went to his quarters instead, and stayed there for the rest of the day.

* * *

There was just one problem. He was  _ hungry _ .

It was the middle of the night. Pavel pressed his pillow against his stomach to try to combat the loud growling noises. And they were  _ loud _ . He was afraid he might wake somebody up because of them. He frantically downed the half a bottle of water that he had left on his nightstand, but it did little to cease the noises. He needed food.

Annoyed, Pavel got out of bed and started toward the kitchen. His stomach hurt so much he could barely stand up straight. He got to the kitchen and made a rule: 200 calories. That was all he was allowed to eat. That rule was quickly broken. He grabbed an apple and some crackers. Then a pint of ice cream. Then a bowl of cereal. Then five oatmeal raisin cookies. Then a handful of cashews. And  _ oh God, he couldn’t stop _ .

Tears were welling up in his eyes as he tried to stop shoving food into his mouth, but it was as if he didn’t have any control over his body. When he finally stopped, his stomach hurt in a completely different way. He let out a whimper and began to clean up. People were probably going to notice that there was food missing, but frankly, he didn’t care. He trudged back to bed and fell asleep.

He felt better in the morning.

* * *

This was not an isolated incident, though. He did it again a few nights later, the same out-of-control feeling as before. Then again a day after that. These…episodes…seemed to be getting more frequent. On the day of his weight check, his weight had gone up two entire pounds. Doctor McCoy was happy about this, but Pavel was definitely not. He needed to figure out a way to stop  _ eating _ so much.

However, that failed to be near impossible. That very same night, he found himself in the kitchen again, not even remembering walking all the way there. Something  _ had to change _ . He ate and ate and ate and restricting for days afterwards was  _ not _ working. He needed a different plan. Something more instantaneous. He wanted to throw up.

His gag reflex.

He cleaned up quickly and then went into the bathroom and stuck two fingers down the back of his throat. He left them in there for a few minutes before taking them out, but nothing happened. He tried over and over again for at least five minutes before he felt anything coming up. When the first round of vomit splashed into the toilet, he froze. He couldn’t believe it.  _ This was crazy _ . A strange feeling of delirium came over him. He was laughing. He had no clue  _ why  _ he was laughing. It wasn’t  _ funny _ . Perhaps it was just so unnerving and unusual, he didn’t know what to do. He threw up again.

Once his stomach felt empty enough, he went back to bed, expecting to sleep easy. Instead, despite his stomach feeling much better than most post-binges, he tossed and turned all night.

* * *

This became a new obsession.

Pavel ate nothing all day, binged at night, and then threw up. It was nearly every day. And it was addicting. His fears of getting caught were overridden by this addiction, so he got more and more careless.

“Chekov? You okay in there?”

Pavel practically jumped out of his skin at the sound of Doctor McCoy’s voice and knock at the door. He gasped mid-heave, choking on his own vomit, which caused him to cough so violently he threw up again. As soon as his airways were clear, he shouted, “yes, Doctor! I am alvight!”

There was a pause and then Bones said, “well, it kinda sounded like you were getting sick.”

“I just ate somesing zat did not agree with me. I have no need of your assistance.”

“Are you sure? You’ve been in there a while.”

“Eet is fine! Please!”

“Can I give you a check-up in the morning, then? Just to make sure you really are okay?”

“Um, yes. Sure, I guess. Can you leave now?”

“Okay…” McCoy responded. Pavel heard him walk away. He breathed a sigh of relief and stuck his fingers down his throat again. He moved them back and forth and gagged loudly, letting out a belch as puke plummeted into the toilet. This went on for a few minutes, until he concluded he’d gotten everything up. Pavel gasped for breath, rocked back on his heels, and rested his head against the wall.

Doctor McCoy noted that Pavel’s weight was starting to go down again, and that he and the rest of the crew were really worried about him. Pavel didn’t care very much about that second part. In fact, it made him rather angry. It wasn’t the crew’s job to worry about them. He was doing his job just fine; what he did in his spare time was completely his business.

He didn’t care that  _ Spock  _ of all people came up to him in the hallway after his shift and asked him if he was alright. Nor that Captain Kirk had told him that if he needed to talk to someone, he’d be there. Nor that Uhura gave him a hug when he said he wasn’t hungry, and told him, with big, worried eyes, “you’re scaring us, sweetheart. Please come have dinner with us.” (He’d refused.)

Doctor McCoy was at a loss for words when he saw that Pavel’s weight had gone down  _ again _ . He was starting to look so skinny it was scary. “Please. Please eat,” the doctor had whispered. Pavel should have realized by the uncharacteristically gentleness of his voice that Bones had started to figure it out.

Then, one night, when he’d finished getting sick in the bathroom, he opened the door to find the captain of the enterprise staring at him with his arms crossed. Pavel’s heart started to beat wildly. A wave of sheer and utter panic washed over him, and he started to hyperventilate.

“You’re doing it on purpose,” Captain Kirk said. It wasn’t a question. He knew.

Pavel’s body picked that exact moment to give up. It wasn’t very convenient. But he was exhausted and terrified and his electrolytes were  _ completely _ out of whack, so he breathed in as if he was going to say something…and then his eyes rolled back in his head and he fell backwards.

“SHIT!” Kirk yelled. He grabbed Pavel before his head hit the wall, and then frantically picked up his comm. “Bones! I need you down here now!”

“What is it?” the doctor asked groggily.

“It’s Chekov.”

“Oh, SHIT!”

**Author's Note:**

> I am going to writing about Pavel Chekov's recovery, through the perspective of somebody who is recovering herself.
> 
> I've just returned from being in an Inpatient Program for my own bulimia, and I've discovered that my most helpful coping skill is writing about other people engaging in behaviors. Which seems pretty twisted. But it forces me to examine my own twisted way of thinking, and it makes me realize that it is NOT what I want. Nor what I want for anyone I love. (Or my favorite characters.)


End file.
